


Songs Beneath Sky and Stone

by goldberry-in-the-rushes (thepottermalfoyproblem)



Series: Songs [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bilbo Remains In Erebor, Canon-Compliant Battle of Five Armies, Dain becomes king, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sorry about all the death, starts angsty but gets kinda fluffy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-03-13 14:14:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3384728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepottermalfoyproblem/pseuds/goldberry-in-the-rushes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo decides to remain at Erebor, since making the trek back to the Shire is unwise with the coming onset of winter. He and the new King Under the Mountain strike up an unforseen friendship and Bilbo takes on more duties as the winter wears on. However, not everyone is happy with this development. Something brews within the halls, and it is dangerous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> AN: I don't own this. This came to me in a dream, it manifested itself as a musical. Crack turned to angst, and this fic poured forth.  
> \-----
> 
> So remember that fic I was talking about, with the singing and stuff? This is the beginning of that. I meant for this to be happy. But then it turned into something else and I am so, so sorry. Also there is a shocking lack of Dain in this Prologue and for that I am sorry. I will make up for it in Chapter 1.

Bilbo had long become numb to the cold by the time the company finally reached him. He had rested Thorin’s head in his lap and had no doubt that tears had streaked their way through the grime on his face. He dimly recalled sobbing something about being there sooner before the world began blurring at the edges. In fact, his mind barely registered Dwalin gently lifting Thorin’s body and Balin holding out a hand to help him up.

“I… I… wish I had been able to keep him warm, I’m barely warm myself, you know?” his laugh sounded flat in his ears. He knew it was the wrong thing to say, but the words tumbled out of his mouth unbidden and he couldn’t help but shiver at the damp chill that seemed to be creeping over his mind. His vision was fuzzy, why was his vision fuzzy? Why did the world sound hollow around him? “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Had he already said that? Or had he only repeated that in his head so many times that it no longer registered?

“Get Gandalf,” someone’s voice, perhaps Balin’s, filtered through his hazy mind. He knew the others were moving around him, but nothing felt solid. He sat in the midst of a thick fog, the only thing that seemed real the cold stone beneath him.

It seemed hours, though it was merely moments, before he sensed someone kneeling beside him.

“Bilbo, my dear lad, can you stand?” Gandalf’s voice drew him back, a voice he had heard even in his childhood. It recalled to him a time when he was young and running through the woods searching for elves.

“Gandalf,” his voice cracked through as merely a whisper. “I think I’ve had quite enough of this adventure.”

The last thing he saw before the blurry edges of his vision closed in around him was Gandalf reaching for him, pity flickering in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End note: I’m really really sorry guys… There will be A WHOLE HECK OF A LOT OF DAIN in the next update, and he shall be GLORIOUS. Hint: “There is a noise that sounds suspiciously like cheery humming.”


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bilbo meets Dain Ironfoot and there is a funeral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I don't own this. This came to me in a dream, it manifested itself as a musical. Crack turned to angst, and this fic poured forth.  
> \-----  
> Here is hoping that the internet doesn't derp again. This is the 3rd time I have tried to post this.  
> All songs and poems are originally by me unless otherwise noted in the end notes.

It was the noise that woke him up. The noise that sounded suspiciously like cheerful humming.

Bilbo groaned and rolled onto his side, curling into himself and burying his face in the pillow. Wait. Pillow? The last thing he recalled was sitting in the cold waiting for the company…

“Thorin!” he sat up with a shout, scattering blankets in his wake. He looked around frantically, willing his memory to be nothing but a terrible nightmare. His eyes caught on canvas ceiling and tall canvas walls before settling, wide and worried, on the darkened sliver of night peeking through the tent flaps. A sudden chill swept through him and he pulled his knees up to his chin.

“Easy now laddie.” The humming stopped and a heavy hand settled on Bilbo’s shaking shoulder. “Ye’ve been through quite a lot t’day.”

Bilbo craned his neck to see who was standing alongside his cot, almost recognizing the voice but not the presence. It was amazing how months on the road could train you to feel who was beside you. The first thing to meet his eyes was a vast red beard tipped with tusks and he squeaked in a rather unbecoming fashion.

The eyes above the beard twinkled in amusement. “I dinna’ mean ta startle ye.”

“No, no, that’s fine. I was quite expecting someone else to be waiting for me to wake, someone from Thorin’s company. Not that I mean that as an insult! I’m sorry, I am dreadfully rude. Where are my manners?” He managed a slight bow, still sitting on his cot. “Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, at your service.”

The area around his visitor’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Dain Ironfoot, to ye and yours as well. Thorin’s cousin from the Iron Hills. I think I saw you with the wizard during the battle, am I right?”

Bilbo brightened a bit, “Yes I was with Gandalf, seeing as I did not think I would be much use otherwise. Hobbits are built for quickness and quietness, not brute force, after all.”

“I’ve only met you, so I canna’ say I know what you mean in general terms. But Gandalf believed in you, meddlesome bugger that he is, so I trust he knew what he was doing.” Dain settled back onto his stool, confident that Bilbo wasn’t going to jump and run.

“Now,” said Bilbo, settling back onto his cot and lacing his fingers across his belly. “Lovely as this introduction has been, why are you in my tent? Based on the humming I was expecting Bofur or perhaps Kili.” Bilbo’s heart leapt into his throat has he watched the twinkle vanish from Dain’s eyes.

“I thought you knew, laddie. But I suppose you passed out before anyone could tell you.”

“Which one?” he croaked out, a sick feeling rising in him, the tendrils of pain winding back into the edges of his vision.

“Kili, he was trying ta avenge his brother. That elf maid of his was with him, killed the bastard that did it, too.” Dain leaned forward and caught one of Bilbo’s shaking hands in his own. “She said that Kili’s death was swift, he didna suffer long.” His voice was gentler than Bilbo expected, something he was grateful for as he tried to compose himself.

Bilbo took a shuddering breath, tears pricking his eyes. “At least he’s with his brother now. They belong together, I suppose. Kili without Fili would have seemed wrong, somehow.” He shut his eyes tightly, tears leaking out and dripping down his cheeks. Then he took a deep breath and set his shoulders, pulling his hand away from Dain. “Nothing I can do about that, as much as I might wish it. What I can do is ask, again, why are you in my tent?”

Dain smiled, though it did not quite reach his eyes. “You are persistent, I will give you that. I see why the company likes you.” He sighed heavily and glanced toward the tent flap, “With Thorin and his nephews gone, Erebor needs a leader. Apparently my position as Lord of the Iron Hills makes me… imminently suitable, not to mention I was next in the line o’ succession anyway. I’ve not had a moment ta breath since Thorin passed. Here in your tent is about the only place no one will think to look for me and Oin figured someone had better be with ye in case ye woke up.  In fact, I’d best tell him you’re finally awake.”

 “Finally? How long have I been out?” Despite the fuzz of shock still wavering at the edges of his vision, Bilbo went to swing his legs off the side of the cot, but Dain held out his hand to stop him.

“Just a day, but you took a pretty nasty knock to the head, followed by Thorin’s death. You passed out when the company showed up. When no one could rouse you, Gandalf had Oin make you comfortable and set a watch.”

Dain stood, cracking his back as he stretched his arms above his head. Bilbo got rather an eyeful of skin as his visitor’s loose shirt rode up and he bit his lip to keep from squeaking. He watched quietly as Dain shrugged on a dark leather over-vest and buckled it shut with a grunt. The dwarf sighed and glanced towards the tent flap again, before squaring his shoulders.

“I should get going, I’ve worried my self-appointed advisors long enough.” He smirked but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It was nice to meet you properly, Bilbo Baggins.”

With that he was gone, and when Oin bustled through the front of the tent moments later, Bilbo was still staring out into the night with a contemplative expression on his face.

\-----

The next time Bilbo met Dain, they were both in far more somber company.

Oin had, after much fussing and frowning, declared Bilbo to be fit to be up and about, within reason. So it was that Bilbo found himself at the funeral of “Thorin II, King under the Mountain, and his heirs, Fili and Kili.” It was all very stuffy and formal and Bilbo was about ready to scream with frustration.

_Thorin wasn’t like that. Fili and Kili don’t deserve to be locked away in cold stone. Kili especially._

The thoughts would not leave him alone, and so he sat, disgruntled and sorrowful, in the back of the chamber praying fervently that it would all be over soon so he could pay his respects properly. By hobbit standards the funeral was already depressing, no one allowed to view the bodies before they were entombed in stone likenesses. Mourners now shuffled past the closed sepulchers in a long line of murmured words and gestures of sorrow.

Bilbo leaned back against the stone and remembered. The funeral had begun in the morning, as first light painted the sky. The members of the company had taken it upon themselves to bear the linen-shrouded bodies of Thorin and his nephews to the chamber in the heart of the mountain. Dwalin and Balin had borne Thorin himself, Orcrist and the Arkenstone upon his breast. Some of the Iron Hills dwarves began tutting at this, but one swift glare from Dain, following behind, had shut them up. Gloin and Oin had borne Fili next, followed sedately by Dori and Nori with Kili, resolutely ignoring the whispers that sprang up at their appearance. The remaining members of the company, Bilbo included, followed behind in a single-file line as the small procession made their way into the mountain and down into the burial chambers.

Dain had stood at the front as the bodies of his relatives had been lowered into stone, reciting some memorized words in Khuzdul. Bilbo had seen him gritting his teeth between lines of rote tradition and somehow knew that the Lord of the Iron Hills was as irritated by the stark formality as Bilbo was. As soon as he was finished, Dain had stepped back and let the gathered masses pay their respects.

So here Bilbo sat, watching a funeral that, to his appalled hobbit sensibilities, was the worst celebration of life he had ever encountered. There were no stories or songs or shared memories, just hushed voices murmuring sorrow into the cavernous chamber. Even the thought of the coming “Feast for the Fallen” did little to lighten Bilbo’s mood. He slumped against the wall, brooding, until the last of the mourners had filed out of the hall, leaving Dain standing alone behind the tombs of his cousins.

Bilbo made to move forward, but something in Dain’s stance stopped him. The dwarrow’s shoulders slumped as his eyes shifted from the doorway down to the tombs and he leaned forward to place his hands flat against the stone.

“Ach, Thorin,” Bilbo heard him whisper, sound carrying through the cavern like he was standing right next to Dain. “Why did ye go and leave me with this burden? I’m gonna miss ye, ye sodding bastard.”

He sniffed and Bilbo desperately considered escape. Certainly Dain didn’t know he was still there, tucked into a corner of the room. But he froze, even as he reached for the golden ring in his pocket, when he heard Dain begin to sing, voice thick with sorrow but strong nonetheless.

 

_In the end_  
_We all must go_  
_Where forges burn_  
_And lanterns glow_

_To Mahals courts_  
_Ancestral Halls_  
_To wait the day_  
_Last Battle’s Call_

_My brother, thou_  
_Hast gone too soon_  
_Beneath the stone_  
_Hid from the moon_

_I wish you peace_  
_Upon your way_  
_And know that I_  
_will be there someday_

_My brother, thou_  
_Hast left me lone_  
_Beneath an empty_  
_And weighty throne_

_I’ll do my best_  
_To set things right_  
_Before the dark_  
_And endless night_

_For in the end_  
_I too will go_  
_Where forges burn_  
_And lanterns glow_

  
The last echoes of Dain’s voice were still ringing through the chamber when Bilbo shook himself out of rapt attention and hastily began to scurry for the door.

A throat clearing behind him stopped him in his tracks. He turned slowly, an apology already on his tongue. Looking up, he met the dark, red-rimmed eyes of Dain and shuffled guiltily instead.

Dain sighed, “I knew ye were here laddie, dinna slink away before saying your goodbyes. Especially on my account.”

“Are you sure? I don’t wish to disturb you.” Bilbo looked down at his feet. “I am unused to dwarven funerals and this seems too somber for the likes of me.”

“Nonsense,” Dain’s voice rumbled above him. “You are part of Thorin’s company, however you choose to honor his passing is your business.”

Bilbo rocked back on his heels and rolled his shoulders. “Right then. Would you like to stay with me? Celebrating someone’s life shouldn’t be done alone.”

“Aye, I’ll stay with ye. Mayhap I’ll learn a thing or two.” Dain matched his longer strides to Bilbo as the hobbit made his way over to the tombs.

Once there, Bilbo sank down in the midst of them, cross-legged on the cold stone floor. When he spoke after a long silence, Dain started with the realization that Bilbo was addressing the deceased. 

“Normally I would do this surrounded by friends and family. Had you been a hobbit we would have buried you in the earth and covered your grave in stones and flowers, perhaps even planted a sapling to mark your passing. We hobbits love green and growing things, after all.” He laughed a bit humorlessly, twisting his hands in his lap. “We would have held a feast by your graveside and stayed until the light of the next day, drinking to your memory under the starlit sky.

“The stone is so cold, _mo chara daor_. How do you stand it? Ah! And the young ones, too soon have they fallen! _I gcás ina bhfuil an chiall i gcuid bás?_ ” Bilbo choked into silence and sat staring, gathering his scattered thoughts, gazing past the tombs and into the space beyond them.

After a moment, he spoke softly again, “Were you a hobbit of the Shire, family would celebrate your life. We would raise glass after glass in your memory. We would spend hours recounting tales from childhood into adulthood. Young and old alike would share their thoughts of you, how you made them laugh and cry. Alas, your people do not share their celebration with you, taking it outside the halls of burial. So I suppose my tales and poems will have to do for a proper hobbit remembrance. Fortunately, I do not have to celebrate entirely alone, your cousin decided to stay with me.”

He motioned for Dain to come sit with him, patting the floor in front of him. Dain shook his head and stuck out his iron prosthetic ruefully. “I’d sit with ye, but I don’t think I could stand back up.”

Bilbo shrugged, “I thought you might be more comfortable on a level with me, that’s all.” He pulled his pipe, miraculously intact, out of his jacket, and quietly tamped it down. He got it going and then lifted it towards Kili’s tomb, speaking slowly.

 

_Ever wandering_  
_Spirit-led_  
_Never looking_  
_Where you tread_

_Impulse of youth_  
_For a while_  
_Forever remain_  
_Nearly a child_

_Life’s breath_  
_Snatched away_  
_Yet life preserved_  
_For others this day_

 

He took a long pull on his pipe, blowing a small smoke ring into the still air. Without looking he held the pipe up to Dain. “Your turn.” His voice cracked a bit. “Remember something for the sake of Kili.”

Dain took the pipe and stared at it thoughtfully. “Kili was but a wee lad the last time I saw him. I can remember him terrorizing his poor mother, daft child went through a period of time where he only wore old clothing because he would inevitably ruin it following his brother into mischief. Ach, I can’t tell a story of one without the other.”

“Then don’t try, tell all the stories at once. I merely started with the youngest, as my tradition calls for. But memories surface as they will, so let their stories tell themselves.” Bilbo settled back, eyes damp but attentive.

Dain puffed on the pipe and blew out a stream of smoke. He’d never been able to make decent smoke rings, and he wasn’t about to start trying now. Casting his mind back, he started talking slowly, recounting stories from his childhood with Thorin. The more he talked, the faster he got, gesticulating and laughing about the hijinks of his youth. Bilbo found himself watching Dain, fascinated at the way his hands moved and the way the tales seemed to fill him and spill from his mouth in a rushing torrent of words. The dwarf lord punctuated his tales with sudden guffaws and side-stories that echoed loudly in the chamber.

Bilbo found himself mesmerized.

They passed the pipe back and forth, and Bilbo shared stories as well. He had only known Thorin, Fili, and Kili for a short time, but he had plenty to tell. He wove together tales of their journey, highlighting the exuberance of the younger dwarves, dwelling longer on the incident with the trolls and lingering on the merriment in Rivendell.

Dain’s son, commonly called Stonehelm, found them hours later. At some point they had drifted toward the back of the chamber, more in deference to Dain’s leg than anything else, and sat on the low bench there. Turned toward each other, they were focused on the stories, pipe long burned out and tucked away in Bilbo’s jacket.

Stonehelm leaned against the wall to watch, loathe to disturb his father, who seemed more animated than he had in several days. It wasn’t until he realized the two had no intent on stopping that he stepped in to urge Dain towards the feast being held in the honor of the fallen.

Bilbo followed them out, still sharing tales as they made their way through the mountain.

\----

The Feast of the Fallen, as it had been titled by Ori and the name had stuck, was to be held in one of the larger open halls. In the days since Smaug’s demise, the scent of dragon had dissipated, if not entirely disappeared. While the mountain did not smell very sweet, the chosen chamber had lost much of the musty odor that plagued the lower halls and treasury. Certainly, it made eating a sight easier.

Upon entering the hall, Bilbo was pleased to note that all of the tables were equal. No high table resided at the front of the room to distance anyone. The men and elves had been invited to the feast since they too had suffered losses in battle. Few elves had deigned to show, and those that had were huddled in a corner, steadfastly ignoring the glares cast their direction by various dwarves.

Bilbo rolled his eyes. Trust dwarves to hold grudges even after their skins had been saved.

Catching Dain’s eye, he nodded towards the tables. “Would you like to sit with me? I think I shall try and find the rest of my companions.”

Dain smiled, but shook his head. “No, I’m sorry Master Baggins. I hafta go sit with Bard and his retinue. The poncy elf isn’t here, but the leaders present still need to look unified.” He paused and considered. “I’ve enjoyed your tales, maybe we could sit and talk again sometime.”

“Mayhap, Lord Dain. Thank you for honoring Thorin and his nephews with me.” Bilbo bowed a small courtesy bow from the waist. “ _Beannacht Yavanna leat._ ”

As he turned and trotted off for the tables, he missed the bemused expression that flickered across Dain’s face for a moment before he too made his way toward his seat.

As the afternoon wore into evening, Bilbo found himself enjoying the feast far more than the funeral. They were as different as night and day. All around him, dwarves and men alike were noisily dining on provisions Dain had brought with him from the Iron Hills. Roast meat was plentiful, as were hearty root vegetables and thick brown bread. Bilbo’s hobbit stomach welcomed the change in dining pace, though he was slightly distressed to discover that he could not eat as much as he once had.

He mentally resolved to fix that as soon as food supplies were stabilized.

Despite the merriment around them, the company was fairly subdued. It saddened Bilbo, but he supposed that it was to be expected with three of their companions passed on. Pulling one last tankard toward himself, he hummed a few bars of a song his mother had taught him long ago.

They had sung it every winter in Bag End, raising a glass or tankard in memory of the Fell Winter, when wolves had crossed into the Shire. Now Bilbo simply had more for the list of winter remembrances.

Across the table Bofur raised his head. “Whatcha humming, Bilbo? It sounds familiar.”

“Ah, it’s a song my mother and I used to sing. It’s called The Parting Glass. She never told me where she learned it.” Bilbo could see his mother in his mind’s eye, present in body but spirt drifting elsewhere as she raised her glass towards the glittering winter sky.

Next to Bofur, Nori looked up out of his tankard, where he had been brooding. “I know that song as well, and I daresay any dwarf from the Blue Mountains could sing it.” He looked like he wanted to say something else, but took a swig of ale instead.

Bilbo hummed in acknowledgement. “Would it bother anyone much if I sang it, in honor of the dead?”

Bofur chuckled. “Not at all, in fact we might join you, those of us who know it.”

Bilbo took a thoughtful sip of his ale, then held the tankard in both hands, staring into the amber liquid within. He started singing with a shaking voice, but it grew strong as his companions slowly joined in, one by one. He had to shake off the reminder of the evening in his warm hobbit hole, oh so long ago.

 

 _Of all the money that e'er I had_  
_I spent it in good company_  
_And all the harm I've ever done_  
_Alas it was to none but me_  
_And all I've done for want of wit_  
_To mem'ry now I can't recall_  
_So fill to me the parting glass_  
_Good night and joy be to you all_  
  
_So fill to me the parting glass_  
_And drink a health whate’er befalls_  
_And gently rise and softly call_  
_Good night and joy be to you all_  

 

Behind him and beside him, Bilbo heard voices joining in as the song continued, growing louder with each word. He shut his eyes to keep the tears from falling, and forged ahead. 

 

_Of all the comrades that e'er I had_  
_They're sorry for my going away_  
_And all the sweethearts that e'er I had_  
_They'd wish me one more day to stay_  
_But since it fell unto my lot_  
_That I should rise and you should not_  
_I gently rise and softly call_  
_Good night and joy be to you all_  
  
_Fill to me the parting glass_  
_And drink a health whate’er befalls_  
_And gently rise and softly call_  
_Good night and joy be to you all_  
  
_But since it fell unto my lot_  
_That I should rise and you should not_  
_I gently rise and softly call_  
_Good night and joy be to you all_  
_Good night and joy be to you all._

 

Bilbo raised his tankard once toward the ceiling, drained it, and fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Parting Glass – This song does not belong to me. It is an Irish Lament that has been haunting me all day, so I stuck it in my story. You can listen to it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FcSqI1KZiLI&ab) or [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3hMdoGet2A8) I like both versions, but my fiancé recommends the first one. Edit: I found [another version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tlzn_o5BEdc) that I also like.
> 
> I was going to continue into Dain’s coronation with this chapter, but the feast unexpectedly appeared from the ether so I wrote that instead. The coronation has been pushed to the next chapter.
> 
> You can find a recorded version of Dain’s Lament on [my tumblr](http://goldberry-in-the-rushes.tumblr.com/post/111364330860).
> 
> I have chosen to use Irish Gaelic as hobbitish, because it seems fitting. I am armed only with a beginner’s primer, so if you speak Irish Gaelic and I am really wrong with any translation, please correct me.
> 
>  _mo chara daor_ – “my dear friend”  
>  _I gcás ina bhfuil an chiall i gcuid bás?_ – “Where is the sense in their death?”  
>  _Beannacht Yavanna leat_ – “Yavanna bless you”


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dain evades his responsibilities and Bilbo takes on some of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I don't own this. This came to me in a dream, it manifested itself as a musical. Crack turned to angst, and this fic poured forth.  
> \-----  
> I am so so sorry this took so long to write. I have no excuse other than a major case of writer's block and also wedding induced stress.
> 
> Please forgive me and enjoy this chapter.

Dain could not shake the song from his head. It clung to his subconscious, springing to mind whenever he thought he had finally forgotten it. The hobbit’s voice, tight with emotion, accompanied it. Really, the fellow had such a fine singing voice, Dain only wished for a happier song.

The dwarf groaned and flung one arm over his eyes, blocking out the first rays of dawn. He and Bard had drunk merrily together the night before, but he was not as young as he had once been. Adding that to Bilbo’s voice haunting his dreams only resulted in Dain being exhausted even as he woke up.

“Ach, cannot wait to be back in the mountain, where the sun canna touch me this early.” He groused under his breath, letting his arm fall and staring at the ceiling of the canvas tent. If he squinted a bit, he could make out the shape of a rabbit in an odd water stain. Sighing, he sat up, swinging his good leg over the edge of the cot and fumbling around for his prosthetic.

He managed to snag it from where it had dropped onto the cold ground the night before and set to buckling it on, wincing as the cold leather of the socket came in contact with his blanket warmed skin. Over one-hundred years and where his leg used to be was still sensitive on cold mornings. He swung his leg once to test the straps and then pushed himself up and standing with a grunt. Turning around to face the cot, a name on his lips, he froze and smoothed a hand down over his eyes and beard.

_Gone a decade and ye still look for her in the mornin’s. Dain ye old fool. At least you didn’t roll off yer cot reaching for her this time._

That had been a rather mortifying thing to explain to the frightened guards responding to the mighty crash and string of curses echoing out of Dain’s tent. At least home in the Iron Hills the bed was wide enough he didn’t roll out accidentally.

The dwarf lord tried not to think of his wife as he reached for his trousers. _She would have folded them last night and tutted over me tossing them on the ground._ He tried not to think of her as he pulled a warm woolen tunic over his head. _She would have laughed when I got it caught on my tusks._ And he tried not to think of her as he redid his braids for the day. _Ach I miss her fingers in my beard, I never did get the hang of it the way she did._ The only thing he succeeded in doing was holding back the tears that still threatened to spill every morning.

Hethra may not have been a match made for love, but they had been well suited. The two had not felt the draw that many spoke of, had not experienced the “forge-fires” that their friends joked and winked about. Yet they had been friends first, for many long years, then married out of duty, and he missed her strong presence beside him with every passing day. Especially in times of strife like this. She would have known how to handle his demanding advisors and would have been a shoulder to lean on after the funeral.

Not that Bilbo Baggins had not helped to lighten that particular burden.

Dain chuckled as he remembered the hobbit. Hethra would have liked the fellow. He was full of stories and made such snide comments for such an unassuming creature. Dain had also heard tales of Master Baggins’s bravery in facing the dragon, and Hethra would have appreciated that as well. Ah, but she had ever been one to put the fear of Mahal in a dwarrow. With friends in the strangest places and a terrifying talent for hand-to-hand combat, she had been truly formidable.

He could have used some of her formidable nature today. Dain pulled a face as he remembered that his advisors had wanted a word with him once he woke up. Hethra would have scared them right off and told them where they could stick their words to boot. He sighed and stared at his reflection in the mirror someone had managed to scrounge for him. His instantly recognizable tusks and braids jumped out at him and he grinned as an idea came to mind. Working quickly, he eased his tusks and beads out of his hair and beard, combing everything flat with his hand. Gently settling the pieces in a little box he kept by his bed, he shook his existing braids loose and began to restyle his hair into a plain working braid. If he could blend into the camp long enough to make it close to the mountain, perhaps he could join in some of the clean-up efforts and avoid his advisors for a while longer. He wasn’t king yet, so there was little they could do to stop him anyway.

Tying a bit of string around the end of his braid and cautiously sticking his head out of his tent, Dain glanced around to see if any of his advisors were within spotting distance. Fortunately, none were, but his cousin Dwalin sat nearby, scowling and taking a stiff brush to his leathers. Dain huffed out a breath and stepped fully out of his tent, intending to scuttle past the hulking son on Fundin before he noticed him.

Luck was not on Dain’s side.

“Where are you headed in such a hurry, Dain?” came Dwalin’s rumbling voice as the dwarf lord hurtled towards the mountain.

Dain skidded to a halt and closed his eyes in resignation. _Shite,_ he thought as he turned around.

Contrary to his firm tone, however, Dwalin’s eyes were twinkling when Dain looked at him. “I’ll not turn you in to your advisors, if that’s what you’re thinking. If you plan on spending your last days of relative freedom hauling rocks with the masses, that’s your choice. But it’d be better if at least one dwarrow knew where you were headed. In case there’s a problem.” Dwalin looked pointedly at Dain, and he flinched.

“I suppose yer right. Wouldn’t do for the future king ta get trapped under rocks or somethin’, or to miss the fancy-arse elven prat make a reappearance in camp. Wouldn’t want ta be gone for that, now would I?” Dain’s laughter was harsh in his own ears.

Dwalin shrugged somewhat apologetically. “Least I can do is stall your advisors if they come asking after you, cousin.” He nodded toward the gate, “go on then, there’s plenty to help with still. I’ll be in camp for a bit if you need me, but I promised I’d help with cleanup farther inside the mountain.”

Dain raised an eyebrow. “Who’d you promise?” When Dwalin’s cheeks flushed, Dain grinned widely. “Please tell me yer helping set shelves upright in the library and that all of the angry mutterin’ I heard out of the eldest Ri brothers this last week wasn’t completely wasted.”

The flush spread and Dwalin spluttered. “There’s nothing there, I’m just helping a friend.”

“Aye, ya keep telling yerself that, Dwalin.” Dain clapped his cousin on the shoulder and headed for the mountain. As soon as he was outside grabbing range he called back over his shoulder, “I’ve seen the lad in battle, cousin, he could probably set those shelves up himself and then some.”

Dwalin’s enraged shout in response caused Dain to chuckle all the way to the gate.

\-----

Even with only a few days’ worth of work, and rubble additions by an angry dragon and a gold sick king, the gate looked better than it had for nearly a generation.  Still, there was much to be done and Dain fell into the rhythm of moving stone with an ease born of long practice. He may have been a noble in the Iron Hills, but they were no great kingdom like Erebor and everyone did their fair share of the work. At least, that is what Dain insisted upon and he hoped that perhaps he could keep the tradition up in rebuilt Erebor.

He could encourage the younger nobles, even if he himself could not venture out. It would do no good to put undo strain on the contingent of bodyguards he would certainly have around him. Shaking his head at himself and wishing once again he was further down the line of succession, Dain settled himself next to a young dwarrow and went to work dismantling a pile of rubble.

After a few minutes of hauling stone in relative silence, Dain struck up a conversation. The youngster, who gave the name Relgin over his shoulder as he tossed rubble like it weighed nothing, turned out to be an amiable fellow with a wit sharper than Khazad-steel. He had Dain crying with laughter as he relayed stories from home, surely greatly exaggerated as only the youth could tell.

“… and then my sister says to me – as I am about to go hunt down this ‘Azruz’ fellow and give him a piece of my mind for breaking my little sister’s heart – ‘Rel, you dolt, Az is a cat.’ I swear I have never been so relieved and embarrassed in my entire life.” Relgin grinned as he finished up yet another story an hour later. Leaning against his shovel and pushing sweat-damp dark locks out of his eyes, he paused in his work and stared at the still-formidable pile in front of them.

Dain almost missed the whisper of Relgin’s words when he next spoke. “Mahal, it’s like we’ve barely touched it.”

“Ah, chin up lad,” he said, hauling another piece of stone into a waiting cart. “Mahal dinna carve the Seven in an afternoon.”

The younger dwarrow huffed out a laugh, “I suppose you’re right. Still, it seems like this will take forever.”

He turned back to his work and Dain wracked his brain for a way to make time seem quicker. The first thing to come to mind was an old song that used to filter up from the depths of the mines on cold, clear nights. Hethra had told him once the song had come with Ereborian refugees, and that it had once echoed through the halls of this very mountain, keeping the miners in sync.

Before he even knew what he was doing, he had started humming the first few bars under his breath. Relgin turned to stare at him, then his face lit up and he started stomping his foot in time with the song. Dain called out the first line, and Relgin joined him on the second.

 _Lift the Rock and Haul the Stone_  
_Mine the Iron and Pour the gold_  
_I won’t rest for I am owed_  
_A place to work among my own_

Around them, dwarves began joining in with the familiar tune, voices ringing out across the open space.

_Take Me Down Beneath the Stone_  
_Where Seven Slept Before the Dawn_  
_Take Me Down Where Mahal Shaped_  
_The Father’s Forms Not Yet Awake_

_Pickaxe ring and Hammers strike_  
_There is no dark, there is no night_  
_Gems they glimmer beneath the earth  
_ _Stone takes back and stone gives birth_

 _Lift the Rock and Haul the Stone_  
_Mine the Iron and Pour the gold_  
_I won’t rest for I am owed  
_ _A place to work among my own_

They finished up with a few repeats, the workers around them calling out regional variations on the verses, laughter rising as more than one dwarf volunteered a bawdy tavern knockoff. Dain snickered as the last notes trailed off and Relgin flung another stone enthusiastically into the waiting cart.

“Know any more songs, m’lord?” he called to Dain, who grinned widely.

“I do, lad, mind you don’t get it stuck in your head!” He yelled the first line out to the waiting dwarves:

_Brothers of the mine rejoice!_

There was a guffaw of laughter that rippled out through the workers before as one they responded:

_Swing, swing, swing with me!_

The song would be stuck in Dain’s head for the next week, but the boost in morale was well worth the effort.

\-----

It was early afternoon when Dain stopped shifting rubble and went out in search of food. His new friend grinned and gave him a conspiratorial wink as he promised to cover Dain's escape. Still chuckling, and humming tunelessly under his breath, Dain snagged a hunk of rough brown bread and a piece of dried meat from one of the Laketown volunteers and headed up to the battlements to eat in peace.

He was just settling into a small alcove and tucking into his meal when he heard light footsteps and the murmur of voices echoing across the supposedly empty stretch of wall. Curious, he poked his head around the corner of his retreat and was surprised when he saw the wizard and the hobbit standing a little way down the battlements, deep in conversation. They were obviously not concerned about their conversation being overheard, and Dain could clearly hear every word. Despite his better judgement, he listened as he took another bite of bread.

"My dear Bilbo," that was Gandalf's voice, tinged with a tremor of worry. "You're starting to sound like you will never return."

There was a sigh, and then Bilbo's voice, catching on the first words and then picking up speed. "I don't know, Gandalf. I feel like right now I'm needed more here. Have you seen the state of their larders?" There was a pause. "I didn't think so. There's only what the Laketown people could salvage and what Lord Dain brought with him. Enough to feed his army for the winter on comfortable rations with a little to spare, if my estimates are right. Holding two major feasts and feeding a town's worth of humans as well is a little bit more of a stretch. Oh, don't give me that look. I'm a hobbit, if there's anything I know for sure its food."

"King Thranduil promised to help the men of Laketown at least," offered Gandalf, but Bilbo snorted.

"He is certainly capable of helping, but it's still going to be a hard winter. And when it's over, food supplies are going to be critically low everywhere no matter what we do." He sighed heavily. "It's the fell winter all over again, but this time I can make a difference. I’m no scared tween and I’m surrounded by an army to fight off the wolves." He laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. Dain ignored the twinge in his chest, even as he wondered about the events that Bilbo so obviously remembered bitterly.

There was another sigh from around the corner as Bilbo continued. “So, no, I don’t know when I will return to the Shire. Just days ago I would have packed up everything and willingly fled back to my warm smial and the comforts of being a gentle-hobbit. But I have since seen it is not that simple and I have to keep helping.”

Dain felt an odd warmth settling in his chest then, profound gratitude and respect mixed with something he couldn’t quite identify. In his shock over the kindliness of the hobbit he almost missed Gandalf’s quiet reply.

“You have grown in ways I did not expect, Bilbo. It does my heart glad. As for your original query that started this conversation, I will gladly carry letters back to your relatives, if only to keep Lobelia away from your spoons. Your mother never really trusted her either, heavens only know why.” Dain could actually _hear_ the twinkle in the blasted wizard’s eyes. “I’ll be here until a little after the coronation, but can make excellent time travelling alone. With a little luck and a decent horse I can be on your cousin’s doorstep mid-January at the earliest.”

“Thank you. It means a lot to me. In all honesty, I’ll probably be sending for some of my belongings. Though I don’t know how long I will be staying, I would be infinitely more comfortable with my own wooden writing desk and a few hobbit-sized items.” The hobbit chuckled softly. “Valar bless the dwarves, but I cannot live in rooms completely of stone forever. Not to mention the chairs are still a little high off the ground, even if they are more comfortable than those of the big folk.”

“I’ll see what can be done, then.” There was the sound of wood tapping against stone, likely the wizard’s pipe if Dain’s ears weren’t deceiving him. “I must be going, I’ve got to give Bard some lessons in kingship. Why he couldn’t get them from anyone else is beyond me.”

A snort echoed across the ramparts. “Most likely because he saw the way all the kings conducted themselves before the battle and wants no part in that feud-driven nonsense. Thranduil means well, but he’s a stuck up old codger with a penchant for wanting to be left alone, and Bard never really met Dain aside from a couple hurried conferences after the battle and a rather raucous drinking contest last night, if Bofur is to be believed. As for the others, well… they are too caught up in their grief and their projects. Not to mention Bard might not be very keen on taking ruling advice from dwarves that crawled into his home through the toilet.”

“Perceptive as always, my lad. I shall see you later.” Gandalf’s footsteps receded into the distance and Dain peered around the corner to see Bilbo leaning against the battlements, pipe dangling from his fingers as he stared off into the distance.

“Right then,” muttered the hobbit under his breath. Louder, he called out, “I know you’re there, you might as well come out where I can see you. But I swear by my toes, if that’s Nori sneaking about in the dark trying to scare me I will have your guts for garters.”

Dain felt his cheeks pink at getting caught, but stepped out from his alcove with a smile. “I dinna think hobbits wore garters, since stockings aren’t part of yer daily routine.”

Bilbo spun away from the wall. “Lord Dain,” he stammered, flushing crimson. “I didn’t think it would be you sneaking about on the ramparts. I thought you would be with your advisors since there is so much to be done before the coronation.”

“I snuck away from them for the day. It won’t be long before I canna become near invisible on a whim and walk among my people.” The dwarf lord smiled softly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I never asked for this, but the people need a king and I’m next in the long line of unlucky royal souls.”

“Ah, so that _was_ you I saw hauling rocks and singing down around the gate. I had wondered… well, I shan’t keep you. It seems Gandalf and I interrupted your lunch.” Bilbo nodded at the hunk of bread still clutched in Dain’s hand.

The hobbit turned to go, but stopped when Dain called to him. “Master Baggins, I couldn’t help but overhear… ye intend to stay in the mountain?”

Bilbo’s back stiffened and Dain winced. Perhaps he had been a bit too forward.

“Will that be a problem?” Bilbo’s voice was resigned, as if he expected Dain to tell him that he was unwelcome in the home of the dwarves. Dain hurried to assuage those thoughts.

“No, no, the opposite really, especially if you plan on taking over charge of the provisions.”

“Oh, you heard that.” Bilbo’s voice was quiet and his eyes, when they met Dain’s, were serious. At Dain’s raised eyebrow he sighed and moved back to leaning against the wall, staring out towards Dale. “I’ve not had much time to take stock since the battle, but what I’ve seen is worrisome. If Smaug hadn’t burnt Laketown, the food you brought with you would have been enough to see your army comfortably through the winter with little rationing. As it is, we now have the Laketown refugees to feed, since they have only what they brought out of the wreckage of their town and I doubt they want to fish in waters poisoned by the rotting corpse of a dragon.

“I am also concerned that come spring no one will know how to tend the fields outside the mountain. There’s quite a bit of farmland surrounding Dale, but it doesn’t seem the men of Laketown know much besides fishing and some basic crop care. It’s going to take more than a couple fields of wheat and hops to feed two whole kingdoms, even as small as these.”

Dain nodded in agreement, stepping over to stand next to the hobbit. After a quiet moment he observed, “It seems you’ve put quite a lot of thought into all of this, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo scoffed, “Not really, I just cannot stand to see the state of the larders. It’s dreadful, truly dreadful.” He waved a hand in the air to ward off anything Dain might say. “I know, I know, there’s been a dragon living in the mountain, and storing food for an army is quite different than storing food for a city, but there are other important things that need to be done that I cannot help with.”

He paused and his face fell somewhat from the cheerful expression that had been growing at the mention of food. “And, I really would like to help. I promised Thorin I would see his mountain reclaimed, and it doesn’t quite feel reclaimed yet. It’s not even completely clean of dragon, though the beast is mercifully dead. If I can do my part in this small way, it would ease my spirit.”

Dain nudged Bilbo’s shoulder with his own. “Mine as well, to know that someone outside me kin cares fer our welfare.”

Bilbo’s smile was pained, “How could I not care, Lord Dain? I have travelled with your kin for months, they might as well be my own flesh and blood.”

The two stood quietly for a moment, gazing across the tent-strewn field toward Dale, a cool breeze blowing from the east ruffling Bilbo’s curls across his face. He huffed and shoved them out of the way, muttering about how he _needed his eyesight_ _thank you very much._ Dain made the mistake of glancing over at the hobbit, and had the sudden and urgent need to replace those small fingers with his own large ones, skilled in braiding. He knew many braids that could hold those curls out of the halfling’s eyes quite easily…

He stopped those thoughts forcefully and immediately, near choking on the suddenness of his preoccupation. _Where in all of bloody Arda did that come from?_

Bilbo looked worriedly in Dain’s direction. “Are you well?”

A dozen responses flitted across Dain’s brain but what left his mouth had nothing to do with the present situation. “How would ye like to join my council?”

“Excuse me?” spluttered Bilbo, turning fully towards Dain, eyes wide with shock. “What in the world do you want a hobbit on your council for?”

Dain, equally shocked at the words that had left his mouth, composed himself before Bilbo had time to sense his confusion. “Ye seem ta have a good head on yer shoulders,” he started slowly. “And ye have a bit more knowledge of the earth than us creatures of the stone have. I could use a voice of reason.”

Bilbo throwing his head back and laughing, near hysterically, was not the answer Dain expected. When he gained his breath, wheezing slightly, he gasped out, “A good head on my shoulders? Lord Dain, I abandoned my family home to traipse after a gaggle of dwarves through the Yavanna-forsaken wilderness and you think _I_ would make a good voice of reason? On top of that, you barely know me, I don’t see how you could trust me that much.”

“Thorin trusted ye. That’s enough for me.”

“Aye, and look where that landed us.” Bilbo paused and let out a slow breath. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for, forgive me.”

“It’s alright, we’re all still a little shaken.”

Bilbo hummed in agreement, “perhaps we are at that.  I’ll think about your offer. When do you expect you’ll need me?”

“Not until after the coronation, we’re ta have the first meeting the following day. I canna do anything official until then anyway.” Dain watched as Bilbo calculated the days in his head and then nodded firmly.

“I’ll let you know soon.” Bilbo gave a little bow. “Until then, Lord Dain.” He turned and Dain watched the hobbit’s retreating back until it disappeared around a corner and into the mountain proper. As the dwarf lord turned to go his own way he heard a strand of song floating back down the tunnel in a high clear voice that certainly belonged to no dwarf.

_I am a dwarf and I'm digging a hole  
Diggy diggy hole, diggy diggy hole_

He nearly choked with laughter when the lines were followed with, “ _Folús a chur air!_ I’m never getting this out of my head!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES:
> 
> I am so sorry, I pushed the coronation back again, but I didn’t realize that it would take so long to write the conversation on the walls. However, the coronation itself is almost a whole chapter’s worth of material I believe.
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me.
> 
> Random fact I learned about Hobbitish: the distinct dialect used by Hobbits (most notably Brandybucks) is largely based on Celtic language forms. As I chose Irish Gaelic completely independently of this knowledge, I am super pleased.
> 
> Dwalin is Dain’s 3rd Cousin, so I can still see them addressing each other as cousin.
> 
> As for the mining songs, I wrote the first one that Dain and Relgin sing. The second one is definitely not mine and is the fabulous [Diggy Diggy Hole](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ytWz0qVvBZ0). It’s a marvelous earworm. I am so sorry, but not really.
> 
> Translations: (again, my Gaelic is very bad. Please correct me if I am wrong. T.T)
> 
>  _Folús a chur air!_ – “Void take it!”
> 
> I figure that Bilbo is usually polite around others, but he knows some rather choice curses in Hobbitish and indulges when he thinks no one can hear him.


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bilbo and Dain get to know one another a bit better, and there is finally a coronation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing on a train with no wifi is infinitely productive. Everyone should try it. That said… I am very sorry this took so long. I am in the middle of wedding planning and trying to move 4 states away. It’s not an excuse, but it’s certainly a reason. 
> 
> Also, I still don’t own any of this, so sad.
> 
> Thanks to [Pop](http://www.poplitealqueen.tumblr.com) for being awesome and beta-reading this chapter!"

Coronation day drew nearer, and with every passing hour Dain felt the shadow of all that had been lost creep up behind his shoulder. He half expected to turn around to the sight of Thorin’s spectre staring balefully from the shadows. But when he turned there would be nothing save for ancient cobwebs and dust. The feeling of being watched remained.

The day before the ceremony dawned early, but for once Dain hadn’t woken with sunbeams streaming across his face through the flimsy canvas of a worn field tent. Instead he woke with the more gentle rumble of watchbells through many layers of stone, a sound and feeling he found he had missed in the long weeks since leaving _Zirinhanâd_. He lay and counted the pulses, nine in total, before rising for the day.

Many of the preparations for the coronation were out of his hands, thankfully, but there was one task left that Dain felt might occupy most of his time. The work crews cleaning the Hall of Statues, soon to be the new throne room, had recovered Thror’s robes and crown, saying they found them discarded on a glittering sea of gold. They offered them to Dain, but he felt it might be out of taste and an ill omen to wear the regalia of the last two kings of Erebor, both meeting their downfall through a sickness of the mind. The Raven Crown, though impressive and beautiful, appeared to Dain as oppressive and heavy. He already bore the weight of the kingdom, he needed no crown to remind him of responsibility.

No, what he needed was a simple crown that displayed his rank, but not in a way that seemed overbearing. Preferably something light. Just looking at the Raven Crown gave Dain a headache.

Noontime found him stalking through the treasure hoard, cursing as his iron leg once again sank into a slippery pile of coins, and thinking that perhaps he should wear the Mahal-dammed hunk of iron and gilt for now and commission a new crown after the coronation. Pulling himself out of the treasure piles and onto the stone platform leading to the stairs, he picked coins and gems out of his prosthetic and flung them back into the glittering sea. He punctuated each toss with a muttered expletive.  

“Everything alright, Lord Dain?” A sudden voice next to Dain startled him and he would have jumped, had he not been sitting. He whipped his head around to find Bilbo settling in next to him, looking ridiculously out of place among all the wealth in his threadbare shirt and trousers. He noticed Dain looking at him and gestured out at the piles of treasure. “Ghastly sight, isn’t it?”

Dain grunted noncommittally and dug another gem out of his ankle joint.

“I’m only asking because you’re starting to worry the others.” Bilbo’s voice was quiet, but his meaning was quite clear.

Dain froze and met Bilbo’s eyes a little guiltily. “I dinna realize how this would look, idiot that I am,” he began, viciously tossing the gemstone as far as he could. “If you must know, I’m looking for a crown.”

The hobbit frowned, not understanding. “I thought they found the crown? Horrid, ugly thing if you don’t mind me saying.”

Dain couldn’t help it, he threw back his head and laughed. “Indeed, Master Baggins, indeed. Which is precisely why I’m down here in this death trap, stumbling around like a dwarrow not yet ten.”

He explained what he thought of the Raven Crown, and Bilbo’s eyes widened.

“Well then,” said the hobbit, standing up and brushing off his pants, though the action did little good. “I can help with that. I found one bloody gem in these Valar-forsaken piles, how hard can a few crowns be? You stay right there and I’ll bring you some choices.”

Dain started to protest, but Bilbo had already slid off the platform and was padding across the glittering room, more surefootedly than Dain probably could have managed with even two good feet. Shrugging and sitting back, the dwarf lord watched as Bilbo methodically crisscrossed the treasure horde, stopping now and then to dig through a promising-looking pile.

\-----

To Dain’s surprise, the watchbells were tolling two when Bilbo reappeared by his side. Somewhere in his subconscious he noted that it was probably a bad sign that he had gotten so lost in watching the hobbit that he had not felt the passage of time. Consciously, he was more occupied with being astonished at the number of crowns Bilbo had found. Close to a dozen, they lined his arms like overlarge bracelets, clinking together softly as he walked. Red-faced with exertion but grinning widely, the hobbit plunked down next to Dain on the platform and started arranging his spoils before them.

“I have to say, that was far more entertaining than searching for the Arkenstone under threat of imminent immolation. Ooh, I like that, I should use that in my book…” Bilbo chattered as he lay out the various crowns.

Dain raised an eyebrow, “Your book?”

Bilbo hummed an affirmative, still arranging the crowns, and waved his hand airily as he spoke. “I know Ori will probably write a history of the journey, but it will be just that, a history. Probably will have a bunch of cultural stuff nobody but dwarves will understand. No, my book will be quite different I think. I took notes in a journal near every step of the way and somehow the thing managed to survive trolls, rivers, a dragon, and my own stupidity. I intend to write a dramatic account of our adventure that will interest just about anyone.”

“I’d like to read it when yer done, then,” said Dain. “It’s always interesting to hear an outside perspective on our culture.”

“That’s one way of looking at it.” Bilbo leaned back and surveyed the arrangement. “There now, plenty of crowns to choose from, and not one of them as heavy or oppressive as that massive black thing.”

“What are those two over there that ya laid aside?” Dain pointed next to Bilbo’s leg.

“Oh, these? They’re quite a bit bigger than the rest so I assumed they were human. Bard, whether he likes it or not, is King of Dale now and probably needs a crown. Smaug plundered Dale and, I assume, took these… I didn’t misstep did I?” Bilbo looked askance at Dain, who smiled and shook his head.

“Yer fine, Master Baggins, it was thoughtful of ya. Here, lemme take a look at them.” Dain held out a hand and Bilbo hesitantly gave him the two crowns. He looked them over for a moment and then handed Bilbo the less ornate of the two, a wide gold circlet engraved with a simple geometric design. “He seems a humble fellow, this should suit.”

Bilbo snorted, “Humble is putting it lightly, Lord Dain. He’s appalled that anyone is giving him the time of day. I’m fairly certain he would be back out on his barge if his people would let him. As it is, I think he’s taken to going hunting in the afternoons just to get away from it all.”

“I don’t blame him.” Dain sighed and stared at the array of crowns before him. “Being a leader is a lot of work. I’ve been leading the Iron Hills for a long time, but even that dinna prepare me for this. Bah, I’m dancing round the vein. Let’s see which of these is the least uncomfortable.”

It took another hour of trying on the various crowns and comparing them for Dain to find one he felt he could tolerate. The offered designs ranged from plain unadorned circlets to gem-encrusted diadems. In the end, Dain chose two: one for special occasions and one for every day. Both were silver and in need of polishing, though that is where similarities ended. The one he chose for every day wear was a simple smooth band about as wide as his thumb, with no engraving save for the makers mark on the inside. For special occasions, Dain picked a crown that, while not ostentatious, was quite a bit more formal. Like the Raven Crown, it framed the face of the wearer, but it did not have the large pointy bits sticking out from the top, nor the plates that ran down like a tail from the back. Under the tarnish, the crown was etched along the edges with a small interlocking pattern. The etched portions would remain dark, even when cleaned, giving the crown a bit more detail.

Dain tried both crowns on again one last time and Bilbo nodded in satisfaction.

“I think they suit you.”

Dain hummed quietly in answer. These crowns were lighter than the Raven, for sure, but they were still weightier than no crown at all. Even if the hobbit thought them suitable.

\----

Though the throne room had not been completely restored to its former glory, the coronation still had to have some semblance of ceremony. So, despite the appearance of the chamber, it was to be used for the solemn event. Of all the halls in the mountain, it had received the most attention, especially since there had been some initial concern about the stability after having a dragon moseying in and out for a hundred some-odd years.

 _Dragons have a strange sense of beauty if they take no thought of the architecture,_ thought Dain as he stood waiting to process into the hall. He had to occupy his mind somehow or he would begin thinking about how much differently this day could have gone.

As with many dwarven ceremonies, there was a traditional order to things. Everything was stiff and formal and confining, though that may just have been the layers of robes and armor Dain had to wear. He’d been allowed to wear his own formal gear at least, thank Mahal. The bittersweet irony was that he’d brought those very things for Thorin’s coronation, not his own.

Stonehelm, standing behind and to the left of Dain, also wore his formal armor. More than likely, he looked like a grumpy ginger kitten, since his hair needed to be left unbound for the ceremony. Dain stifled a laugh at the thought, turning to his right through force of habit and then involuntarily wincing. Behind him, he heard a quiet sniffle quickly cut off. Dain knew without looking that his son’s eyes were fixed on the empty spot to his right.

Sticking his hands behind his back, he signed to his son _I miss her, too._

Leaving the consort’s spot in the procession empty felt like an open sore, since Hethra’s help had been invaluable in the running of the Iron Hills. It also felt like an unwelcome invitation, one Dain knew would be taken advantage of as soon as he stepped into the coronation feast. Eligible dwarrows, and more than a few ineligible ones, would fling themselves at him in an attempt to grab power. The thought disgusted Dain.

He’d been forced into marriage for politics once, never again. It had not been so bad, being married to his best friend, but the expectations of his council had been unbearably miserable. Dain would not wish such an uncomfortable arrangement on any potential spouse, much less a repeat performance of the same for himself.  His mind began to wander in the direction of all the possibilities and he tamped down hard on his thoughts as a flash of auburn curls at his shoulder raced through his head.

He took a deep breath and steeled his mind. There would be time enough for thought later. Right now he had to concentrate on getting through the ceremony without embarrassing himself.

In theory, a coronation seemed very simple. Walk in, take a few heartfelt oaths, get crowned, walk out.

In practice, everything was much more complicated. Dain attributed it to the fact that many elder dwarves clung to old and more secretive ways. Much like Thorin had, which was probably why this ceremony would have suited his tastes much better.

Dain didn’t have any more time to contemplate might-have-beens, as the great stone doors leading into the throne room swung inwards. The room that stretched before him seemed to be a glittering maw of silence, crowds of dwarrow circling the newly polished and gleaming golden floor. Swallowing hard, Dain stepped forward past the honor guards flanking the gaping entrance.

Time to face the future.

\-----

Out in the cavernous hall, Bilbo Baggins tugged at the collar of his new formal robes and wished desperately for a cup of decent tea.

For an event of special importance, Bilbo would ordinarily wear a new suit, with a bright waistcoat and beautifully tailored pants. Instead, he was stuck in a high collared tunic and robe set that made him feel dreadfully out of place. Though grateful that Dori had taken time out of his day to alter these clothes for the momentous occasion, they still felt confining.

At least he didn’t have to wear shoes.

Smirking at the thought, Bilbo wiggled his toes against the stone beneath his feet. One would think that the stone inside a mountain would be cold and clammy, but instead it was warm and dry. Bilbo found himself enjoying the rough texture against the soles of his feet as he watched the doors on the far end of the room swing open to reveal the ceremonial procession. Two guards, anonymous beneath their helmets, flanked the wide doorway, but Bilbo recognized the sons of Fundin by the broadness of their shoulders and the way Ori tried desperately not to stare.

Then Dain stepped into the room and Bilbo felt the air leave his lungs in a rush, even as a heavy expectant atmosphere settled across the room. Dain looked stately in his formal armor, fine-wrought iron over heavy blue robes, but Bilbo glimpsed the resignation and grief in the set of Dain’s shoulders and the grit of his jaw. In the glittering lamplight reflected off the golden floor, he could see the tears glistening in the corners of Dain’s eyes. In the silence of the chamber, Dain’s iron foot clinked loudly with every step. Save for his son, he crossed the floor alone, a glaringly obvious space left empty behind him.

Next to Bilbo, Nori whispered to Bofur, “5 sovereigns says he gets at least one offer at the feast.”

Dori, standing behind his brother, gently cuffed him upside the head. “Be respectful,” he hissed, but Bilbo caught a muttered “10 sovereigns says he gets cornered before he can even get through the door.”

Bofur snickered quietly and a few nearby dwarrow frowned in the direction of the company. Aside from Balin and Dwalin, the remaining members of the company had elected to stick together at the foot of the dais, where they would have a good view of the proceedings. Despite the arguments of the elders performing the ceremony, Bilbo had been allowed to attend the entire ceremony. Representatives of Laketown and Mirkwood would be present for Dain’s crowning, but since the oaths were in Khuzdul, non-dwarves were encouraged not to attend.

According to Nori, Balin and Dori had argued that since Bilbo had been around dwarves so long, he probably had been overly exposed to Khuzdul anyway and a little bit more wouldn’t matter at this point. Apparently there had been a bit of spluttering on the part of the elders, but they gave in rather quickly under the weight of dual unamused stares.

Bilbo thought he might be a bit more grateful if he didn’t know the ceremony would last most of the morning. Dragging his attention back to the procession, he found that Balin and Dwalin had shut the far doors and fallen in behind their cousin, who had stopped at the bottom of the wide steps leading up to the dais. He gazed up at the gathering of elders in trepidation, and Bilbo noted how he shook himself before climbing the first step.

The hush in the hall grew, everyone seeming to hold their breath as Dain reached the top of the platform, centered in the semicircle of elders. Stonehelm stopped just below his father, still leaving a space beside himself.

Ori, standing on the other side of Bilbo, leaned over and whispered, “That’s where Dain’s wife would be if she was still alive.”

Bilbo furrowed his brow and whispered back, “Is that what all the betting was about a moment ago?”

Ori nodded and Bilbo sniffed in frustration. He couldn’t quite put his finger on why, but the idea of dwarves cornering Dain following an obviously stressful coronation bothered him immensely.

Not much of the rest of the coronation made sense to Bilbo, since he only caught the meaning of a few words in Khuzdul. Each of the elders stepped forward to make a speech, and at 7 individuals it was at least an hour before they were finished droning onwards. Bilbo desperately wanted to sit down after the first thirty minutes, and he wondered how Dain still stood in his iron prosthetic. It had to be uncomfortable at best, unbearably painful at worst.

Then again, he fought in the blasted thing. Maybe he was used to it.

When the speeches were blessedly over with Dain knelt on the hard stone floor. If Bilbo hadn’t been watching so intently, he would have missed the flicker of pain that brushed across Dain’s eyes as his knees hit the ground. The hobbit recalled a passing comment in the burial halls and wondered if anyone would remember to help Dain back up, or if he would be left to struggle upright on his own.

By the sudden stiffening of Stonehelm’s shoulders and the way his hands twitched at his sides, Bilbo knew he wasn’t the only one to have these thoughts.

Khuzdul questions droned onward, long and apparently thorough. Dain took the oaths slowly and methodically as if each new statement weighed him down. Bilbo thought they probably did, in some fashion. With every oath, an elder would step forward and work a new section of the complicated braids growing in Dain’s hair and beard. Beside him, Stonehelm started putting in the familiar braids of the heir.

Bilbo shifted restlessly from foot to foot, trying not to think of the last time he had seen those braids on raven and golden heads. The combination of memories, droning dwarven voices and the blinding glimmer of light across gold had started to get to him, and he could feel the base of his skull start to ache. The healers had told him that he might have some lingering headaches because of his head injury, but he hadn’t had one yet. He winced ruefully, it seemed his luck had run out.

Mercifully, the khuzdul section of the coronation seemed to be drawing to a close. Dain still knelt at the top of the dais, but the elders had paused and made some sort of signal. There was some grumbling from the back of the chamber as the contingent of elves and men settled in behind the dwarves. Bilbo squinted through his growing headache at the small cluster of nervous-looking humans and bored-looking elves. Bard seemed to have brought his children, all wide-eyed at the proceedings, and a couple older councilors. Thranduil had, surprisingly, shown up. He and his retainers glimmered faintly at the back of the crowd.

Out of the corner of his eye Bilbo saw Nori frown and press something into Bofur’s hand.

He rolled his eyes, then winced as the pain behind them sharpened. Redoubling his efforts to focus, Bilbo watched as the elders drew forth the crown Dain had chosen. A whisper ran around the room as one of the elders raised the crown above Dain’s head.

“What happened to the Raven crown?”

“Always knew Dain’d never wear that thing.”

“I heard the Raven crown was cursed.”

“No excuse to abandon tradition.”

The elder glared out at the crowd and the whispering died out. Then their gaze softened as they lowered the crown to rest on Dain’s head.

“Rise, Dain, the second of your name, King of Erebor and Head of the line of Durin. May your reign be long and blessed by Mahal!”

Stonehelm surged forward to help his father to his feet and the crowd let out a mighty roar. The dwarves of the company cheered as well, though they were a bit more subdued. Bilbo was grateful, for his headache seemed to be getting worse with the noise.

He looked up towards the newly crowned king, and out of all the crowd, caught Dain’s eyes. Their gazes locked for just a moment, but Dain’s tired smile stayed with Bilbo as he made his way out of the crowded throne room.

\-----

Much like the rest of the day, Dain’s recollection of how he got to the feast hall blurred in his mind. He walked beside his son in a haze of memory, the crown heavy on his brow. Under his ceremonial armor his heavy robes itched and sweat dripped down his spine.

Altogether tired and uncomfortable, he couldn’t wait to get back to his chambers. He just had to get through a respectable portion of the celebration before excusing himself.

By the time he arrived, a raucous crowd filled the feasting hall. At Dain’s insistence, and mindful of available stores, this feast was significantly smaller than the Feast of the Fallen. Though some had grumbled, the effort to conserve resources probably pleased a certain hobbit. From his position on the raised dias, Dain could look out across the gathered throng. The elves and men had been invited, but only the men remained at their own table in the back of the hall. The elves had “regretfully declined” but left a barrel of some fancy elf-wine in their place. A smaller barrel of the same stuff had been sent to Dain’s chambers that morning as a sign of goodwill.

Not something he wanted to drink alone. Perhaps he could convince Bilbo to join him for a few glasses, he seemed the sort to enjoy wine. Seeking out the hobbit, Dain spotted him at a table with the rest of Thorin’s company, rubbing at his forehead with the heel of his palm and mindlessly stabbing his food. Dori seemed to be hovering over him worriedly.

Dain frowned and wondered if the hobbit felt well. From what he had heard of hobbits, they very rarely got put off their food. He watched Bilbo so intently that he didn’t notice his son speaking to him until he got a bony elbow in the side.

“Ach, yes _'ubnabunê_?”

Thorin rolled his eyes good-naturedly at the nickname. “I said, are you going to stop mining the halfling with your eyes and hand me the bread, or do you want it all to yourself?”

Dain spluttered as he pushed the basket in his son’s direction. “I’m not minin’ anything!”

“Yet,” muttered Thorin as he stuffed a roll in his mouth. He chewed for a moment, ignoring his father’s raised eyebrow. “Look, _‘adad_ , you’ve been talking about or staring at the hobbit since you met him. And you’ve had, what? Two conversations with him?”

Dain stared at his son. “I’ve certainly had more than that, thank ya kindly. And keep yer nose out o’ ma business.”

“I’m just observing.” Thorin’s eyes, dark like his mother’s, gleamed with amusement. “I know you want to get outta here, and if I were you I’d leave before one of the dwarrow twittering in the corners works up the nerve to come over here.” He nodded over to where a cluster of dwarves were whispering excitedly and trying to unobtrusively stare in Dain’s direction.

Dain sighed heavily. “They never stop. Look carefully, Vallock’s in the thick of it. Again.” Thorin made as if to crane his neck to see, but Dain gripped the back of his head with one strong hand. “I said carefully, son. I’d rather him not come over for a chat.”

He raised his mug to his lips so no one could read them and muttered under his breath. “Selfish unfeeling bastard.”

“Just because _‘amad_ was barely in the stone… alright you have a point.” Thorin conceded. “If you want to escape, I can cover for you. Now might be a good time, looks like Master Baggins is leaving. I can say you needed to speak with him about the upcoming meeting.”

Dain glanced up to see Bilbo making his way through the crowds towards the side exit leading to the former royal residences. He slipped through the crowd so smoothly, Dain thought that he probably remained unnoticed. Perhaps he should ask Bilbo to share some of that elf brew after all.

“Aye, say that. It’s not a complete untruth anyway.” Dain pushed back from the table and clapped his son on the back, between his shoulder blades. “I leave the feasting in your capable hands. Make nice with the elves if any decide to show up after all. There’s a redheaded lass in their number that’s known for defyin’ orders.”

“I’m sure you can relate, ‘ _adad_. Now go catch the hobbit before he vanishes completely. I hear he can do that.” He waved his father off with a good-natured grin, and Dain turned back to see Bilbo retreating through the door. Muttering a curse under his breath, he took off after the hobbit, skidding past the still gossiping cluster and ignoring them when they called out to him. He could deal with Vallock breathing down his neck another day.

Right now he had a hobbit to catch.

Dain strode into the hall and looked about for Bilbo, who he saw standing just a little ways off. Raising his voice in greeting, he called out.

“Master Baggins!”

Bilbo flinched and looked over his shoulder. Dain stopped in his tracks. Bilbo’s eyes were rimmed in red and his hands had twitched upwards as if to clap over his ears.

“Mahal’s beard, are ya alright? Ya look awful.” He spoke in a softer voice and Bilbo relaxed a bit.

“Headache, I’m afraid. The healers said I might get these now and then after my injury, but I didn’t think they would be this bad. My apologies, I meant to stay longer.”

“Ya needn’t apologize, I was just escaping myself. Too many dwarrow chasing for a newly rich spouse.” Dain made a face. “Actually, I came to find ya, see if ya wanted to help me drink a small barrel of that elf-wine Thranduil’s people left me. Seeing as you’ve a nasty headache though, maybe some other time?”

Bilbo, not thinking, nodded and then winced at the sudden movement. “I really would like to try this elf-wine of yours but I fear it wouldn’t help my head. If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather go sleep. My head feels like a conker at a Took family reunion.” Dain must have looked confused, as Bilbo gave him a watery smile. “Ask Bofur, I taught him how to play. Now if you’ll excuse me, I am going to go have a cup of that tea Oin gave me and hide under a blanket until light doesn’t feel like a hundred tiny needles stabbing me in the eyes.”

Bilbo turned to go, and made it a couple steps down the hall before Dain called after him.

“Can I be any help, Master Baggins?”

Bilbo paused, “Actually, if you don’t mind terribly, could you give me a hand getting to my room? I just moved in today and I can barely see past the ache in my skull. My getting lost is a certainty.” He stopped and a look of mortification crossed his face before he grimaced in pain again. “But, ah, you’re king now aren’t you. That was terribly improper of me.”

Dain chuckled, mindful to keep his voice low. “I offered to help ya, didn’t I? Come on, let’s get ya out of the light ‘n noise. We can try that wine some other day.” He settled a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder and started to steer him in the direction of his rooms.

He couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face when, after a few moments, Bilbo muttered, “And you can stop it with the ‘Master Baggins’ business. I’m a simple hobbit, Bilbo will do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a lot of liberties with how Erebor is arranged because that throne over the pit is a massive tripping and dying hazard. So I relocated it to the room with the massive gold floor because that’s fancy and I like fancy things. And then that room is moved farther back into the mountain, so it’s not the entrance hall because that’s slightly worrisome for trade reasons.  
> Fight me.  
> Additionally, I meant to get to the advisor meeting in this chapter, but I felt bad for getting stuck on the coronation. Writers block is a terrible thing.  
> So join me next time for advisor meeting shenanigans.  
> \-----  
>  **Khuzdul:**  
>  _’adad_ \- Father  
>  _’amad_ \- Mother  
>  _'ubnabunê_ \- my tiny stone (could be translated as “gem” or “pebble”. Dain nicknamed Thorin II “Pebble”)  
>  _Zirinhanâd_ – Iron Hills
> 
>  **Expressions:**  
>  _Dancing round the Vein_ – To avoid something unpleasant. (Borrowed from Dwarrow-scholar.)  
>  _Mining with your Eyes_ – To stare very hard at someone or something, often used as an innuendo


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a meeting of minds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been brought to you by angst, job loss, and the gift of one very needed scrivener license.
> 
> I'm sorry this has taken so long, but I moved 4 states and then had Dragon Con prep to deal with. My sincere apologies, I will try and write more often and get chapters out a little faster.

The morning after Dain's coronation found Bilbo Baggins, much recovered from his headache, acquainting himself with the library. Unlike much of the rest of the mountain, the multi-storied hall had mostly escaped the destruction brought by Smaug. He'd had little desire for the scrolls and tomes lining the shelves, most heavily decorated items had been kept in the treasury. Instead, he'd settled for knocking the contents of the room about and going on his way. The only work that had been lost in the chaos had been the complete book catalog, now a pile of moldering ash on its stone pedestal.

How the rest of the books had remained mostly unscathed in the face of the dragon's wrath had baffled Bilbo, until Ori introduced him to the library itself.

In the hobbit's eyes, the room was a magnificent hall. Reaching three stories tall, the octagonal space housed hundreds of shelves filled with a myriad of books. The strong stone columns and shelving arrangement had protected the majority of the books from the gout of flame Smaug had evidently spat through the doorway. A network of mirrors brought daylight streaming into the open central area, illuminating the blackened floor and walls. Anything in the central atrium not made of stone had been burned away and, in places, even the stone had taken on a warped look.

"Guess he couldn't get his head through the door and settled for the next best thing," said Ori, appearing beside Bilbo with an armful of scrolls. The hobbit hummed in agreement, not looking up from the ledger resting across his lap. He had curled into an alcove nestled in the side of the stone platform in the center of the room. When he chose it, Ori told him it was a scholar's alcove, made for privacy and reduced distraction. Carved from a single piece of stone, it held a broad bench and a raised ledge meant to serve as a shelf or desk.

Ori settled the scrolls on the shelf and leaned against the wall next to the alcove. "The main catalog may be ashes now, but each section had its own smaller logbook. Its just a matter of sorting through the shelves until you find the right section." Ori made a disgusted noise and looked over his shoulder at the nearest set of shelving. "Having a dragon around is apparently an effective method of keeping books preserved, but the earthquakes caused by him shifting around did a number on this place. We're going to be re-shelving books until Durin's rebirth."

"Anyway, I managed to find a section of local trade records written in Westron and pulled some of the agricultural agreements you asked me to find. Was there anything else you needed for your meeting?" Ori watched as Bilbo reached for one of the scrolls without looking up and unfurled it across the ledger.

"No, not yet, thank you, Ori." The hobbit ran a finger down his ledger and wrinkled his nose in concentration. "I'm just trying to get a sense of how Erebor fed itself before Smaug's arrival. The mountain is enormous, there had to have been some sort of agricultural infrastructure, I just have to find it. On top of that I have to schedule rations for the food we currently have so everyone can survive the winter."

He blew hair out of his eyes, annoyed, but his voice was soft when he spoke again. "I'm a gentle-hobbit, Ori. This is what I was raised to do, manage land and the fruits of the land. But... in the Shire, if I make a mistake there might be anger and no small amount of grumbling, but everyone will end up fed. We always have a surplus, just in case there's something to celebrate. Here, if I make a mistake... someone might die. At least until we can build up stores. That might take a few years."

He looked up to meet Ori's wide eyes, and felt a pang of guilt at the expression on his friend's face. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you."

Ori shook his head. "I'm not frightened, Bilbo. Not even a dragon could scare me, remember?" Bilbo chuckled and Ori continued, "I'm a bit worried, is all, for many of the same reasons you are. But you're resourceful, and clever, and have far better connections than a bunch of rowdy dwarves. If anyone can get us through the winter without starving, it’s you."

"We shall see, my friend. I've yet to get a proper count of our current stores anyway. Enough about that," Bilbo closed his book with a snap. "What's this I hear about a certain balding mutual friend helping put up shelves when we both know you could probably put them all back to rights on your own?"

Ori squeaked, flushing pink, and Bilbo snorted a laugh, "I'm sure you weren't using his offer of help as an opportunity to watch him work. Or be close to him, or anything of the sort."

"Master Dwalin," Ori managed to stammer out, "is simply my friend, Bilbo! I'd not take advantage of his hard work simply to watch his very toned... arms..."

Bilbo noticed the slip but made a concerted effort not to smirk. He had 5 gold riding on Ori cracking first after all.

\-----

Bilbo stayed in the library until the watchbells started tolling noon. From his alcove he could hear them faintly, as if from a great distance. Ori said he could hardly hear them at all, but could feel the vibrations in the stone as clearly as if he stood right next to the ringing bells. The hobbit had frowned and pressed his feet against the floor. He sensed some sort of rumble, but it wasn't nearly as strong as the sensations Ori described.

Maybe with time he could learn to sense the bells, but for now he would rely on his ears. Standing and stretching, he gathered up his ledger, leaving the scrolls since he had no idea where in the massive library they went. With the tome tucked under his arm, he made his way out of the library and towards the suites of rooms that lined the upper parts of the mountain. The company had insisted he take a set of rooms in the royal apartments, since it was one of the few residences in the mountain that opened out onto a balcony overlooking the River Running and Dale far below. Bilbo had been embarrassed, but grateful. He hadn't been sure if he'd be able to live in the mountain without regular access to open air and sunlight. He only wished to be a bit closer to the ground sometimes.

Pushing open the door to his chambers, Bilbo smiled at the sight of sunbeams spilling across the floor. The room may have been sparsely furnished, but the sunlight made it feel homey. He set the ledger on the chair by his bed and padded over to the small chamber that served as a bath and dressing room. Perks of being a suite meant for nobility: privacy and decent plumbing. Nori had told him that he'd even be able to take a hot bath once the forges had been going long enough. Bilbo looked forward to that day.

For now though, he passed through the bathing area into the deep alcove that formed his closet. His formal robes from the coronation lay neatly folded on a low shelf. Bilbo ran a hand gently over them, considering. They were, without a doubt, the nicest things he owned at the moment. They were also stiff, scratchy, and had a neck high enough to choke. Bilbo looked down at the clothes he currently wore and grimaced. Though now thoroughly clean, his trousers and linen shirt were threadbare. He thought that not even the most talented Laketown good-wife would be able to salvage them.

Sighing, he put his Shire clothes aside and picked up another tunic Dori had somehow conjured for him. The deep red reminded him of his favorite jacket, and the armor of a certain dwarf king.

Bilbo shook his head to dislodge the thought. He couldn’t afford any more distractions right now. Not with the fate of the mountain’s food stores resting squarely on his shoulders. Besides, if he entertained those thoughts he was no better than the circling vultures he’d seen at the coronation feast. Making a disgusted noise at himself, the hobbit tugged on the tunic and a pair of dark trousers. He tied a long sash about his waist and grimaced at his appearance in the tarnished mirror set into the far wall.

_Far too gaunt, but can_ _’t be helped,_ he thought, tugging on the sash much like he used to tug on his waistcoat. Briefly, he wished dwarven fashion called for suspenders. At least then he could grip them to steady himself during the coming meeting.

Sighing to himself, he padded back across his chambers to fetch his ledger but stopped when a heavy knock sounded on his door.

“What now?” he muttered as he snatched up the volume and stamped over to fling the door open. “Can I help you?” he snapped before fully registering the stocky grinning figure standing in the hall.

“I was wonderin’ the same thing,” came the amused voice of Dain, and Bilbo bit back a rather potent hobbitish curse.

Instead he managed to stammer out a “I’m sorry, your majesty. I didn’t think you would be stopping by so close to our meeting.” He missed Dain’s wince at the honorific in his haste to apologize.

“Ah, I thought I’d walk ye down. Its a fair ways an’ I could use the company.” Dain stepped away from the door as Bilbo closed it behind himself and fell into step beside the king.

“I suppose I could use a bit of guidance in the mountain. With all the rebuilding going on, it seems paths and passages are changing on an hourly basis. Certainly an inconvenience for all you dwarves, and definitely unpleasant for a hobbit set in his ways.” Bilbo chuckled at himself, but when Dain didn’t respond in kind he coughed slightly. “Sorry, my lord, that was a joke.”

Dain hummed non-committally and Bilbo glanced up to see eyes peering down from under bushy eyebrows, for once solemn and thoughtful. Tearing his own eyes away, Bilbo instead took in the scenery. The advisory council would take place in a small anti-chamber off of the throne room, almost a quarter-hour walk from the royal suites, so there was plenty of time to enjoy the view. The view of the walls, that is, not the dwarf king currently walking close enough that Bilbo could feel the heat radiating off of him. The walls and floors were currently bare stone, reflecting every sound with a dismal, empty echo. Bilbo had heard various members of the company talking about how, once the guilds were once more running smoothly, fine carpets and rich tapestries would line the halls. He made an effort to concentrate on what that might look like, just to keep from gravitating back to Dain’s solemn eyes.

When Dain finally spoke, his voice was quiet, but Bilbo still jumped slightly. “I imagine its difficult, so far from home. Do ye miss your smial and your garden? I know I miss the red-streaked hills of _Zirinhan_ _âd_. At least here the stone is familiar ta me.”

Bilbo smiled, a little shakily, “Yes, I miss Bag End dearly, my garden more so. But, honestly, I stagnated there. My father may have been a Baggins, but my mother was a Took down to her very bones and it’s nigh on impossible to shake that kind of legacy. Besides, if I had stayed there, who would be agonizing over your food stores?”

A chuckle sounded over Bilbo’s head and a heavy hand settled onto his shoulder, squeezing slightly. “And I’m grateful for that kindness. As well as the other kindnesses ye have shown my family. If there’s any way I ken repay you…”

“No, no,” Bilbo shook his head frantically. “Everyone has already done so much, my lord. I would hate to ask for more.”

Dain’s hand tightened, and he gently turned the hobbit so he could face him properly. “Bilbo. I offer ta repay ya because I’m not sure how else ta show my gratitude. In truth…” he hesitated and Bilbo glanced up in time to see him swallow with what could only be described as nerves. He wet his lips and tried again, “In truth, ye’ve done so much for my people that we canna repay you, not in a thousand lifetimes.”

They stood in front of the door to the anti-chamber now, Bilbo gaping up at Dain, mouth working as he tried to formulate a reply. After a moment he settled for an embarrassed, “Well, _somebody_ had to do _something_.”

Dain’s mustache quirked as he smiled, “Indeed, Bilbo.” A definite twinkle shone in his eyes now, but he said nothing else. Instead he pushed open the door to the anti-chamber and strode inside, Bilbo following quietly on his heels. The various council members’ whispered conversations ground to a halt as Dain took his place at the head of the long stone table.

Bilbo slid into an empty spot between Stonehelm and Balin, shrugging when the latter raised an eyebrow at him. Across the table, he saw one of the Iron Hills nobles - Tarun, if he remembered correctly - narrow his eyes, lips pursing in an unattractive scowl. His companion, a dwarf with an astonishing number of rings in their ears, sighed heavily and elbowed him in the ribs.

Bilbo’s sharp ears caught the words “be nice” hissed exasperatedly through clenched teeth before Tarun’s glare shifted away from him and onto the other dwarf. Ori made eye contact with Bilbo from his position of official scribe, unfortunately on Tarun’s other side, and rolled his eyes dramatically. The hobbit stifled a grin before glancing around at the other occupants of the room.

Directly across from Dain sat Bard, looking uncomfortable but resigned in his golden circlet. There was an empty chair on his right, left in case the elvenking had deigned to show up. To no one’s surprise, he had not appeared. Instead, Prince Legolas and Tauriel sat solemnly to the right of their king’s empty chair. Between the Iron Hills dwarves and Tauriel another elf fidgeted, flipping a gilt pin nervously through her fingers. Her gaze kept twitching towards the empty chair, as if she could will her king into the room. Instead she kept catching the eye of Bard, who in turn chewed his lip and glanced at his chosen council.

There was a sudden _clack_ in the silence that Bilbo instantly recognized as knitting needles and he craned his neck to peer around Balin. A laketown woman sat between Bard’s eldest children, a stony look on her face and knitting moving smoothly in her hands.

“Well,” she said, needles clicking again. “Are we gonna get started? I’ve got hungry mouths ta feed, and King Bard here tells me this council’s meant ta fix that. No one’s gettin’ fed if we’re all just sittin’ here in silence.” Bain attempted to become one with his chair, while Sigrid pinched the bridge of her nose, cheeks flaming with embarrassment.

Tarun’s mouth dropped open and he made an indignant noise before Dain shut him up by letting out a bellow of delighted laughter.

“My Lady Hilda, yer absolutely right” Dain said after calming down and wiping his eyes with one broad thumb. “I’d like ta officially get this meetin’ underway, so everybody sit down.” He waited for the scraping of chairs to subside before turning to Ori and holding out his hand, “Ori, ye’ve been appointed official scribe for the council. Ye’ve got the topics we need ta cover?”

Ori, already scribbling away on a sheet of parchment, pulled another sheet from the top of his piles and handed it to Dain without looking. “Should all be there, Your Majesty.”

“Good,” said Dain, squinting down at the writing. “All right, you lot, lets get this gold nonsense out of the way first…”

Bilbo had honestly expected the discussion of the mountain’s treasures to go over poorly. He was pleasantly surprised when the conversation not only proceeded smoothly but the results seemed satisfactory to all involved. Sure there was a little token grumbling on the part of Balin and Iron Hills nobles at first, but Dain gazed steadily at them until they quieted down.

“Look,” he said, voice calm but firm. “My cousin was within his rights ta promise a fourteenth share to each member of his company, but we have ta be realistic. There is a lot of bloody gold in this damn mountain and even if each of them got a fourteenth of a fourteenth they would _still_ be rich until the end of their days. As I understand it, Master Baggins here was gracious enough ta promise Bard’s people a full half of his share. I assume that offer still stands?”

Bilbo, who had quite forgotten that promise, nodded furiously anyway. He had hardly any need for his share, really, but it was foolish to give everything over. Dain beamed at him from his spot at the head of the table, and Bilbo felt the tips of his ears go warm as he ducked his head.

“Since that’s the case…” Dain raised his voice to address the human leader at the other end of the table. “Bard, there’s quite a few treasures from Dale that Smaug carted away. I’ll see that they’re returned to ye, plus however much it takes to fill that half a share. It might take a while to dig everything out though, ye alright with taking a little now and the rest later?”

Bard looked a little shell-shocked, having abandoned calculating the vast sum of wealth being awarded his people in favor of keeping his mouth from falling open in bewilderment. He cleared his throat when Hilda’s knitting needles threatened to punctuate the silence again. “That’s perfectly fine, King Dain. A little by your estimates is likely enough to see my people through the next year, even with rebuilding.”

Dain grinned and rocked backwards a little bit. He hadn’t yet taken his seat, and Bilbo idly wondered if he’d stand for the whole meeting despite his leg.

“Right, that just leaves the elves. Prince Legolas,” Dain’s twinkling eyes slid from Bard to the elven prince, “did yer da have any particular demands besides those cursed white gems.? Honestly, I canna believe the nerve of some dwarrow…” He muttered the last bit under his breath and Bilbo only caught the words due to his sharp hobbit ears. It took all his willpower not to snicker disrespectfully.

“None, my lord,” came the prince’s voice. “At least, none concerning the gold within the mountain.”

Dain snorted quietly and Bilbo heard him mutter again. “Well that’s a surprise.” Louder, he said “And I suppose that means he has other demands he would like to make of me?”

Legolas sighed heavily, for an elf, and hesitantly said, “He wishes for my companion, Tauriel, to remain behind as an ambassador to Erebor. She and my father had… a falling out and he feels it best if they do not live near one another for a time.”

“Is that all?” Dain’s eyebrow rose at Legolas’s nod. “Then tell King Thranduil that I have set aside his gems and a portion of the share that would have gone to my cousin. It’s the least I could do.”

Bilbo watched as Legolas’s eyes widened a fraction, the only indicator of the elf’s shock. “I… Thank you, my lord. That’s most generous.”

Balin, whose back had gone stiff at the mention of Thorin’s share, made an indignant noise and Dain rounded on him. “I’m not giving the elves Thorin’s share to spite his memory, Lord Balin. Ye should know that, yer the one that drew up his will.”

Balin’s mouth snapped shut, and he sighed. “That I did, Your Majesty. Left his share to you and Dis.”

Dain’s smile was fond but sad, “Aye, and Dis gets the boys’ shares as well. Gold’s a poor substitute for family, I’m sure she’ll understand. Now,” he clapped his hands together firmly. “All that’s out of the way we can move on to more pressing matters.”

Tarun, who had been looking more and more constipated throughout Dain’s division of the gold, shot upright in his seat. His companion sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of their nose. “All is not out of the way, Lord Dain. We still have the matter of compensation to the army of the Iron Hills, _your_ loyal army I might add, and compensation to those nobles that funded the ill-advised hasty march to this Mahal-forsaken heap of dragon dung. We have soldiers that fought for you against these outsiders and you are giving them first pick of our people’s treasures! How dare you!”

He continued in this vein for quite a while, and Bilbo was utterly shocked at the blatant disrespect being shown Dain. Beside him, the Stonehelm vibrated with rage, only held back by a small motion of his father’s hand. Balin sat in slack-jawed horror, too appalled to even speak. Down the table, Bard’s children sank lower into their seats while Hilda continued knitting, the only sign of her aggravation in the faster clack of her needles. 

Dain, by contrast, stood silent throughout the other dwarf’s tirade, but when Tarun paused to suck in a ragged breath, he cut him off and his voice was low and sharp with fury. “I am not sure where to begin, Tarun, son of Mun. Should I address your utter disregard for my rightful authority first, or your blatant disrespect of our new-sworn allies? I included you in this council as a courtesy only, the internal affairs of the dwarves were not the subject of this meeting, as you well know.”

“But since you have made it the business of this meeting, let me assure you: Everyone deserving will be compensated for their sacrifices both in and out of battle. I am not giving the men and elves first pick of the dragon’s horde, I am returning what is rightfully theirs. And since you have displayed such utter incompetence, you are no longer welcome in this deliberation.”

Dain turned to address what seemed to be a shadowy corner of the room and said something quietly. Bilbo’s ears strained to make it out. “ _Azraku_ _’asakud_ , see him out please.”

A cloaked dwarf appeared out of an alcove, hood obscuring his features, and firmly grasped Tarun’s elbow. “Let’s go, _kakhf_ _ûn,_ ” he said gruffly. Bilbo saw a wisp of auburn hair and then the dwarves were gone, stony silence in their wake.

“Does anyone else have opinions they would like ta share?” Dain’s voice was firm, but Bilbo could hear the sudden exhaustion in his voice.

Across the table, Tarun’s companion cleared their throat softly. Dain’s eyes narrowed and his head snapped in the direction of the sound. “Do ye? Because I’m sure we would all love to hear.”

“No, Your Majesty. Merely apologies. Tarun has always been rash, but this outburst was unexpected.” Their eyes grew hard, glittering like obsidian. “He will be dealt with.”

 Dain visibly relaxed, exhaling a slow breath.“Don’t hurt him too much, Khâla. He’s a decent sparring partner when he’s not being a prick.” With those words, the tension in the room eased and discussion moved along to more pressing things.

Balin and Bard summarized the status of repairs both inside and outside the mountain. As everyone had suspected, there would be no return to Long Lake for many years, the water fouled by the corpse of the once-great Smaug. Instead, the people of Laketown would become the people of Dale once more, slowly rebuilding their city at the foot of Erebor.

The mountain itself was well on it’s way to being structurally sound again thanks to the hard work following the battle. A good thing too, for the harsh winds of winter had begun to wail across the eastern plains. Dain listened intently to the discussion, humming agreement every once in a while. Beside him, Ori’s pen scratched softly across parchment sheets.

When the room was once again quiet, Dain tilted his head and gazed solemnly across the table at Bard. “If yer people winter in Dale, seeing as the city is still mostly destroyed, ya may not survive the storms.”

“That is a risk we shall have to take.” Bard shrugged, resigned. “In any case, the stone will be warmer than wooden platforms suspended over ice, and my people endured that for many years.”

Hilda snorted indelicately. “Just because we endured it does not mean we enjoyed it, m’lord.”

Bain stuffed his fist in his mouth to smother a giggle. His sister bit her lip and her eyes twinkled.

“Well,” said Dain, clearing his throat to call attention to himself. “I have an offer that I have already cleared with the elders and other dwarf-lords. If ye would like, yer people can winter in Erebor and return to Dale in the spring. The more warm bodies in the mountain, the better, since our families will not be arriving until summer. And ye can restore yer homes without the bother of living in them at the same time.”

Across the table Khâla looked pleased, and somehow Bilbo knew that this had been their idea. No doubt Dain had agreed in an instant and the pair of them had run roughshod over any objection. The thought amused Bilbo greatly.

“That brings us to another, far more pressing concern,” continued Dain, turning to look at Bilbo. “Master Baggins has kindly agreed to manage our food stores and acquisitions. I believe you had some news?”

Bilbo swallowed nervously and nodded, opening the ledger he had brought with him to the meeting. Taking a steadying breath and reminding himself that this was no different than a harvest-time meeting in the Shire, he began.

If anyone had asked Bilbo later what had been said, he would not have remembered one bit, only that everyone seemed to listen intently. He spoke for nearly ten minutes, outlining what must be done to preserve rations with the estimated numbers inside the mountain. When he periodically glanced at Dain, he received encouraging nods and the smallest of hand gestures instructing him to “go on.” Relying on his ledger for accurate numbers, Bilbo gave a short history of Erebor’s agricultural systems, including trade with Dale’s farms that had been lost to the dragon’s desolation. There was even evidence that at some point Erebor had been host to several large greenhouses, though those still lay under hundreds of tons of rubble.

“If we can get even the simplest of farms prepared over the winter,” Bilbo said, “we can be ready to plant by spring. I know it would be asking quite a lot, but if we could spare some energy to discovering even one of the ancient greenhouses, we may be able to start growing some simple vegetables to supplement our current meager rations.”

He tilted his head thoughtfully and gazed across the table at the elven contingent. “I hate to ask this of you, Prince Legolas, since your father has already provided so much to the men of Dale, but do you know if the Greenwood has any seeds to spare? I plan on writing my relations in the Shire, but I fear that any seeds from there would take months to reach us.”

Instead of Legolas, however, the nervous elf spoke up, pen tapping against her neatly stacked pile of parchment. “If I recall correctly, we have a large store of seeds set aside for harsh times. I would be happy to discuss this with you at length after the council is over, Master Baggins.”

On the other side of Tauriel, Legolas visibly relaxed. “ _Hennaid, Maen_ _ínim,”_ he said to the dark-haired elf, before turning to the room at large. _“_ My apologies, I do not know much of the inner workings of my father’s kingdom, as I was trained more for the protection of our outer borders. Celegnen is more familiar with our internal affairs."

“I shall take that into consideration for future meetings, Prince Legolas,” rumbled Dain from the head of the table. “Was there anything else, Master Baggins?”

Bilbo shook his head, “I think I covered it all, Your Majesty. We’ll all have tighter belts by spring, but we will survive.”

“Glad to hear it.” Dain clapped his hands and rubbed them together gleefully. “Lets get started then, there is lots to be done, and little time to do it.”

The meeting quickly dispersed after that, everyone returning to their previous occupation. Dain sent Stonehelm with Tauriel to find her suitable lodgings in the royal apartments, so she could be near sunlight, and Bilbo suspected he might have a new neighbor before the day was out.

On his part, Bilbo lingered behind, slowly gathering his ledger and collecting his thoughts before he ventured out again into the bustling halls of the mountain. He was just sliding the last of some loose papers between the closed pages when he felt a quiet presence behind him. Turning, he found Celegnen, hands clasped before her.

“My brother sells himself short,” she said, dispensing with introduction.

“I beg your pardon?” said Bilbo, brow wrinkling in confusion.

“My brother, Legolas. He knows more than he believes he does, but he prefers to leave internal affairs of the Greenwood to me.” She gazed down at Bilbo curiously. “Ah, I see you did not know us to be related. I resemble our departed mother, much as my brother resembles our father.”

Bilbo tilted his head and considered her face, pale and framed with raven-dark hair. Finally, he said, “you have the same nose.”

Celegnen laughed, “If you can find some comparison in our faces, ‘tis a blessing. But I did not simply come to talk about my dear brother. Walk with me to the gate and we may discuss the use of my kingdom’s stores.”

Bilbo agreed and the pair walked through the winding halls towards the entrance, quietly planning the use of seeds should a greenhouse be discovered. Bilbo quickly found Celegnen a delightful companion, just as interested as he in the quiet arts of writing and gardening. When they reached the front gate, he bowed politely and invited her to return for tea.

“I should enjoy that, since I will return to visit Tauriel often enough. Thank you for speaking with me, Master Baggins. I look forward to helping you with gardens for Erebor.”

She bobbed her head in a small bow, then turned away and was gone before Bilbo could tell her to call him “Bilbo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I am really sorry this took so long to post. Thank you for sticking with me and continuing to read. As always, comments are greatly appreciated.   
> \-----  
> Translations:  
>  _Hennaid, Maenínim._ \- Thank you, Clever Snowdrop. (this nickname is also a pun because "nín" can also mean "my" and Legolas is a nerd)


End file.
